The Pursuit of Perfection

32: Lucky Me

It's just hours after I first have the thought, and Harry is smoking, sitting on the edge of the window. I wonder if this is how he always smokes, or just when I'm in the room so I don't leave smelling like weed.

"Why do you like me?" I ask Harry.

Harry looks over at me. "Why?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." He says, and then takes another hit. "Well," He turns and looks at me, "You push me, all the time. And I like that. I got into a funk before I met you, no one was buying anything I was making so I just stopped trying, I stopped creating, and I kind of gave up. But I wanted you. And you were such a try hard, and I mean that as a compliment, and it just pushed me to try to be better. You make me a better person."

"Oh," I say.

"Not the answer you wanted?" He asks.

"No, I didn't have a desired answer." I tell him.

"Plus you're fine as hell, so that helps."

I laugh and shake my head. "Harry, let's be realistic."

Harry laughs, "I'm serious."

"Mmm." I murmur, rolling my eyes.

Harry puts down the blunt and walks over to me, he sits on me, and then tips us over so he's on top of me. "I am being serious." He says again.

I smile and look at him, "Thank you."

He smiles and leans down and kisses me. I push him off of me immidately.

"Oh ew, Harry you taste like marijuana, oh my gosh I'm going to be sick," I stick my tongue out and Harry laughs at me, getting off of me and walking out of the room. When he comes back, resuming our previous position, he smells minty.

"Already better." I tell him. He smiles and then rolls his eyes at me, leaning down and kissing me.

***

Talking to Isaac made me think of Annabel. And Annabel is hard to find. She doesn't have a Facebook, and her name doesn't turn much up. But finally, on the third page of a Google search I see the name of a dance studio and her name show up. I click the link and it gives me her contact information, along with a picture.

She looks the same. But she looks so different. She grew her hair out long, and she looks older. Not old, but older than I last remember. It says she has a one year old son in her bio.

Where has the time gone?

I email her. It's short, and to the point. I don't know how else to reach out to her, I don't know what should be said. So I don't say much. I hope she responds. I hope she cares.

I don't know if I would, after years of shutting her out.

But Annabel is magnanimous, if anyone ever deserved that title. So maybe I'll be lucky, and she'll talk to me again. Maybe she'll let me into her life again.

***

It's loud downstairs. Harry told me that a bunch of his housemate's old friends were coming over tonight, and that we were better off hiding in his room, or somehow making it out alive to my place.

"You know," I say, the bass of the music clearing piercing the air, "We could just go to my house."

"If I go downstairs, they'll see me, and then I'll never make it out alive." He says. None of the lights are on, and Harry's sitting on the window sill, the street lamps cast an eerie glow to the room. The window is wide open, allowing gusts of air to come in. The flash of light from Harry striking a lighter illuminates his face, casting shadows. He leans his head on the window as he smokes. It's marijuana, from what I've gathered Harry doesn't smoke cigarettes.